


In These Latter Times

by Alistra (ALeaseInWonderland)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Archery, F/M, M/M, archery porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:55:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26249830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALeaseInWonderland/pseuds/Alistra
Summary: "Careful what you wish for." - famous proverb"I'm gonna shoot it to see what happens." - Clint Barton, famous dumbass.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Clinta Barton/his bow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65
Collections: be_compromised AU Exchange 2020





	In These Latter Times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spectralarchers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectralarchers/gifts).



> Dear [Spectralarchers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectralarchers/pseuds/spectralarchers),  
> remember when we debated whether to sign up for this promptathon and said: "Haha, I bet we end up writing for each other!" ? Well, this is what you get for enabling me; hope you like what I've come up with. 
> 
> This fic took the proverbial village to create. 
> 
> My heartfelt thanks go out to [Crystallitanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystallitanie) for fact-checking and being generally helpful in questions of mythology and language.
> 
> [Harishe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harishe/pseuds/Harishe), fellow archer and up to then total stranger, who volunteered to check my translation of technical terms. As if that wasn't enough, they **spontaneously created art**. Find it at the end of the story (cause, spoilers!). Thank you, once more.
> 
> Of course, no fic of mine would be complete without my trusty editor, the most feared comma-slinger in the west, the SPAG-tacular [CloudAtlas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/). Merci, chérie.

Clint has never been especially good at accepting gratitude. It makes him feel all sorts of uncomfortable.

"Really, Simone, it was no big deal," he tries for the umpteenth time, but as his tenant's words eventually dry up, she gives him a big old hug instead and, yeah, ok, that's kinda nice. "It was nothing special. I bet any old Avenger happening to live near you would have kicked those guys' asses."

She laughs at that, pulling back while her sons re-enact some of his fight moves. Clint rubs the back of his neck bashfully, not sure they should have witnessed as much of his heroics as they obviously did.

"Boys," Simone says, composed once more. "Remember there's something you wanted to give to Clint?"

He's mentally bracing himself for macaroni art, but really would be happy with anything that's not more renditions of stick-figure Hawkeye shooting blurred bad guys drenched in red crayon blood. However, what the kids do fetch after a race to their apartment is something else entirely.

It's a small bow.

"We found this at a garage sale. Looked kinda cool, reminded us of you and we thought, well... Just a little token of our gratitude." Both Simone and her boys are looking up at him with big eyes and Clint feels all sorts of mushy inside.

"That was embarrassing to watch, Hawkeye," Kate says after they've left, putting her feet up on the small table and all but melting into the couch next to Lucky.

Clint flips her off without looking, investigating his present.

The bow is much shorter than his customary weapon of choice, closer to a rider's bow than a classic recurve and expertly handmade. Although it's very old and, if the amount of dust in all the nooks and crannies is any indicator, has been kept strung for a long time, there is a surprising amount of tension in the string. Running his fingers over the delicate dips and curves of the smoothly polished wood, it reveals impressive craftsmanship in every detail; including the red and gold braiding of the string. As he squints, Clint can make out slight discolourations towards the middle and miniscule fraying where the centre serving would be on a modern dacron string; almost, as if somebody with grubby fingers had actually shot it.

"Aww, look!" Kate interrupts his scrutiny, having upended the dented cardboard tube that came with the bow. She holds a fistful of decorative arrows with ornate metal heads that look the opposite of aerodynamic. "The fletchings almost look like little hearts!" she squees.

~*~

A fact that is as often acknowledged as underestimated is that most stupid ideas are born of boredom. When even the reruns of _Dog Cops_ have lost all appeal, when there's nothing to _avenge,_ when the tracksuit mafia is wisely keeping its distance for once and even Lucky cannot be persuaded to fetch just one more ball - what then?

Clint lies with his head hanging off the side of the couch, looking at his apartment upside down and hoping for inspiration. If no distraction presents itself soon, he will be forced to do something desperate, like change his sheets or do some laundry.

Before things can become this grim though, his eyes fall onto the ornamental bow Simone gifted him with a few weeks prior. The fact that it looks as if somebody actually shot the thing has been niggling at him whenever he looked at it, but there's no way to guess such an old bow's structural integrity, much less since it's been kept strung. Having a bow snap in your hand is an archer's worst nightmare and a quick fire way to unpleasant side-effects like losing an eye. One would have to be reckless to even try.

Or, you know, terribly bored.

Clint may be bored but he's not suicidal, so he puts on full protective gear including his purple-tinted safety glasses when he eventually decides to take the bow to the SHIELD range, causing him to draw more than just the usual curious looks. He’s not surprised that he gathers an audience a safe distance behind him.

A first, tentative half-draw and the limbs bend as smoothly as any well-maintained piece of equipment should; only the soft whisper of arrow against riser, no hitches or hesitance.

Didn't the arrow look shorter when he picked it up?

Now its draw length is perfect for his arm, the wood a warm pressure against his palm. No bow has ever felt as familiar before he's even shot it. Clint carefully controls his breath in anticipation, but somehow he knows that both string and riser will hold.

Another deep breath and he fully extends the bow.

The noise of the range falls away.

Anchoring feels like coming home. As countless times before, his thumb tucks into his palm while his index aligns itself with the curve of his jaw, but when the taut string kisses his lips...

It's an almost palpable spark, an electric current that suddenly runs under his skin. He focuses on the X inside the centre gold of the target and releases the arrow.

As if in slow motion, the bow's kinetic energy is transferred to the arrow with hardly a jitter, and, despite its heavy head and fancy heart-shaped fletchings, it flies straight and true. From one split-second to the next a golden shimmer flares up, the shaft appearing to part down its length into two identical arrows flying side by side until, with a sound remarkably like a sigh, they disappear.

Clint stands frozen in post-release, not believing his eyes.

Hesitantly, he looks around, but hardly anybody is paying attention to him. Instead most people are grouped around a pair of agents who apparently chose this very moment to get surprise-engaged. Well, _mazel tov_ to their timing. He pushes the button that signals ceasefire along the entire range, designed to allow him to collect his arrows. Nobody pays him any mind as he walks towards the target, but he already knows he won't find anything. It's only when he makes the call to Hill about the PSS ( _potentially supernatural shit -_ specialized term) that he happens to look down at the quiver on his hip.

There, among the rest of the unusual arrows, the one he just shot has been replaced. Superficially the same as the others, this one looks brand new; shinier in appearance, its shaft golden and now, with fresh red to its feathers, the fletchings do indeed look like hearts.

In the distance, the agents cheer.

~*~

"To summarize: You shot a disappearing arrow that ended up back in your quiver?" Hill asks, the subtext of _Why does this shit always happen when I'm on duty?_ written clearly in her crossed arms.

"When you say it like that, it sounds kinda silly," Clint replies, scratching at the bandaid across the bridge of his nose.

None of the immediate examinations of bow or arrows have shown anything unusual, none of the patterns on it seem anything but decorative. There was a moment of excitement when Stark spotted an inscription on the upper limb, but _Epwc_ meant nothing to anybody, and the likelihood of it being trademarked by the _East Pasadena Water Company_ that the acronym search turned up seemed negligible.

According to Natasha the letters aren't Russian and Barnes agrees, adding that it doesn't look like anything HYDRA-related that he can remember. Which makes it either _alien_ or _witchcraft_ , but Thor is somewhere off-world and in all honesty, Clint is too impatient to wait for the racoon to check his emails. It goes without saying that nobody wants to call Dr. Strange's pompous ass unless it becomes absolutely necessary.

"I say I take another shot and we see what happens," Clint offers, twirling a tarnished arrow in his fingers like a drumstick. It shouldn't be possible, not with the heavy copper head and real feather fletchings, but somehow the balance is perfect; like the projectile equivalent of the bumblebee - laughing in the face of theoretical physics everywhere.

"We understand if you don't want to do this, Clint," Steve says, laying a heavy hand of paternal concern on his shoulder. "It's anybody's guess what could happen here."

Hill just raises an eyebrow and tips her chin impatiently in the direction of the target.

Ignoring the way Steve directs _Captain America is disappointed with your choices_ eyes at her, Clint straightens in preparation of the shot. "Maybe you two should step back," he offers, making everybody tense up with him.

Well, Natasha is smirking over something playing on James' phone, but everybody else is super-focused. 

Banner and Stark are almost cheek-to-cheek in front of the screen that shows the black and white lines of the high-speed camera's backdrop.

From the corner of his eye, Clint sees the good Captain attempt to take a chivalrous, shielding step in front of Hill who's not having any of it, creating an awkward two-step between them.

Clint takes a deep grounding breath, tries to push them from his mind, and nocks the arrow. 

As before, he focuses on the golden circle in the middle of the target. The bow feels even lighter than before. It bends almost without any effort on his part, as if it was a sentient being that _wants_ to propel the arrow as fast and as far as it can possibly go.

Anchored at his jaw, Clint releases the arrow in the same instant as Hill hissing impatiently at Rogers.

Time seems to slow.

Just like the before, the arrow's flight starts straight and, just like before, it flickers halfway down the range, appears to split down the middle, miraging two identical arrows side by side and disappears.

A lot of things happen at once.

Stark and Banner shout their disbelief in unison, immediately starting to squabble over control of the rewind button, Hill and Rogers gasp as if somebody punched all the air out of them, Barnes gives a low, impressed whistle, Natasha inclines her head, making a small, " _Hm_ ," noise - which for her expresses staggering amounts of surprise - and, last but not least, a beautiful, good-as-new arrow appears in Clint's quiver.

"Maria, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to imply you weren't fully capable of protecting yourself," Rogers apologizes, sounding dismayed.

"I know, Steve. I do appreciate your concern," Hill replies, uncharacteristically appeasing.

Clint meets Natasha's amused eyes, but before either of them can start a wordless exchange about their ongoing endeavour to set the good Captain up, Barnes has walked over, reaching for the quiver.

"Maybe it's just you," he muses, snatching one of the newly improved arrows and twirling it with annoying dexterity. _Show off._ "What if somebody else shoots them?"

Clint shrugs.

Barnes' eyes light up. "Let me try."

"Come on man, you never even shot a bow before," Clint laughs, trying to take back the arrow. Barnes holds on with a toothy smile.

"How difficult can it be if you can do it, Carnie?"

"Can you even see as far as the target, Gramps?" Clint shoots back, their banter friendly and familiar even as neither of them gives an inch.

"Yes, yes, you both handle phallic weaponry impressively, I'm sure," Natasha interrupts. Her smaller hand closes around the thin wooden shaft between their fists. "Why don't you give that to me for now..."

"So, uhm, do you really need us for this?" Steve asks from behind her, voice curiously tight, but Clint and Barnes keep their eyes locked on each other, their smiles growing strained.

" _Boys_ , give me the arrow," Natasha tries again, her second hand now warm on Clint's bow-arm. "Maybe we shouldn't risk breaking it, as long as we don't know what it does."

In his periphery, Clint registers the sound of the door closing as Cap and Hill leave together, which is really strange, but everybody is too preoccupied to pay them any real attention.

"Bruce?" Natasha asks, sounding slightly worried as she peers at the bow still clasped tightly in Clint's other hand. "This is probably obvious, but have you checked whether this might be Greek?"

"James, let go," Clint hisses, tugging.

" _Clint_ , you let go." Barnes tugs in the opposite direction. It's probably Clint’s imagination that the arrow appears to grow warmer underneath their hands.

"Greek!" Banner exclaims. "But of course! That would mean it's not Epwc but... Έρως - or rather Ἔρως in classic Greek, which means- oh _fuck_."

"Both of you, let go of that arrow _now_ ," Natasha barks at them, but it's too late. With that same deep sighing noise the shimmering arrow breaks and disappears from underneath their hands, making both Natasha and Barnes briefly lose their balance and tumble against Clint.

Warmth floods his chest.

It settles soothingly into every cell of his body, like that first long drink of perfect coffee on an icy day or the first rays of sunshine caressing the skin after getting drenched in a summer storm. Gasping, he sees the same bewilderment on Natasha's beautiful face, her wide eyes vividly, _mesmerizingly_ green - yeah, she's always been pretty, but how has he never noticed before just how enthralling her eyes are?

Two spots of colour appear high on her cheeks and he cannot fail to notice that she's not meeting his eyes but appears focused on his mouth instead.

"Thank God Cap left, he'd have made you wash your mouth with soap, Bruce!" Tony quips from somewhere, but Clint's attention is fully absorbed by the luscious red of Natasha's curls. Has her hair always been this shiny? "Has seriously nobody thought to ask my unparalleled AI to translate?! That hurts, you guys. I am _hurt._ "

"Tony, shut up! If that's Greek-!" Banner tries to get a word in, but Tony waves him off impatiently.

"JARVIS, translate scan."

"Language identified. Most likely match: classical Greek," JARVIS confirms. "Translation: _Eros_."

"Eros?!" Tony echoes, as Banner groans and Clint finally tears his eyes away from Natasha. As he takes a step back to stop his increasingly less platonic train of thought, it's strangely comforting to see her equally reluctant to part.

Or rather, Clint attempts to step away but is stopped by the other, significantly larger, hand on his arm.

" _Eros_ ; The Unbeatable, Greek embodiment of the creational power of nature," JARVIS elaborates, interpreting Tony's confusion as a request. "Later known mostly as the son of Aphrodite and Ares. Better known in contemporary pop culture under the Romans' infantilized adaptation of _Cupid._ "

Clint's eyes hesitantly follow the lines of the hand that still holds gently but insistently onto his forearm. The metal limb disappears into the rolled up sleeve of a rust-coloured henley, traces it all the way up to a ridiculously broad set of shoulders. Has he ever seen a five-o'clock-shadow and wondered what it'd feel like under his lips before? 

An unprecedented spike of desire makes Clint want to touch his thumb to the dimple in James' chin; the way James is smirking makes it seem he wouldn't exactly mind. 

Natasha clears her throat and gives Clint a downright smoldering look. 

Glancing over, so does James.

_Aw, love, no._

Or maybe... yes?

 _Cupid in these latter times has probably laid aside his bow and arrow, and uses fire-arms, a pistol, perhaps a revolver._ \- Nathaniel Hawthorne

**Author's Note:**

> Do click for Harishe's art! [On AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26341228) or, rebloggable, [on tumblr](https://harishe-art.tumblr.com/post/628612204392022016/yay-todays-the-day-i-get-to-post-this-adorable).
> 
> Yes, dear archery community, I am aware Clint doesn't anchor like a barebow archer here but like one aiming via attached sights. For the sake of fiction, suspend your technical disbelief. <3 


End file.
